Alone
by sensitivesatan
Summary: Sam's at Stanford and John's... somewhere. So like any normal person, Dean decides to vent his feelings by going on a witch hunt. Hurt!Dean


**This is my first fanfic, so let me know how I did, and I hope you enjoy. It's purely some self-indulgent hurt Dean, so if you're expecting some actual storyline, you may or may not be disappointed...**

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Dean slammed the Impala's door shut, shoving his gun into the back of his pants. He half-stomped across the carpark, like a petulant child, towards the dirt path that led into the forest.

John was a dick.

That wasn't the first time Dean had thought that. It probably wouldn't be the last, either. He'd sent multiple texts and left an indecent amount of voice messages on his father' phone, and all had gone unanswered, and he hadn't been seen by any of their friends in a few weeks, except for one hunter in South Dakota last Tuesday; which meant John was alive, he just didn't care about the son that hadn't abandoned him enough to reply to a text.

Dean shook himself. He was supposed to be focusing on the hunt, not his hurt feelings and emotions and girly crap like that. He made his footsteps softer, heading along the path until he saw a sudden burst of red light. Dean stopped, pulling out his gun, ears straining for any hints of what the witches were doing. He could hear their voices, chanting and muttering, but the words were in Latin or some other dead language, and he wasn't exactly fluent; Sam was the smart one. Dean was just the muscle, and he liked it that way. Who wanted to be drowning in ancient books when you could be shooting witches between the eyes?

Another burst of light, this time blue, lit up the forest for a fraction of a second before it, too, died. The witches' chants became louder, and Dean sped up, knowing whatever the hell they were doing was probably coming to its climax. He could see them through the trees, now, four of them circled around a small pile of oddities on the forest floor. A small bowl contained a green flame.

Dean raised his gun, taking aim. He had the element of surprise with him, so he could probably gank two of the witches before they started to fight back. They were basically human, so a bullet to the head or chest would work; both would be taken to be safe. Dean aimed up the first witch's head in his sights, took a breath, and pulled the trigger.

As soon as the first shot rang out, Dean moved his gun to the next witch, pulling the trigger again. Within moments, two of them were slumped on the ground as the others screamed and one flung a sizeable log in Dean's direction as he ran out into the clearing. One of them swiped at the air with her hands, and to Dean's dismay his gun went flying somewhere into the trees. That was gonna be a bitch to find later.

He ran at the first witch, dodging the rocks she sent flying at him as he yanked out his hunting knife from his pocket. He sunk the blade deep into her chest, instantly turning to the last bitch in the clearing, smiling at her.

"I'm going to rip you apart!" She hissed furiously, sending a branch flying at him.

Dean ducked, the branch sailing harmlessly over his head. He ignored the witch's clichéd comment as he crouched, knife held at the ready. The witch began to chant, the green flame between them suddenly flaring up. Dean darted around it, knife glinting in the firelight, and then flying out of his hand. Dean stopped instantly, looking down at his hand where the knife had just been.

He probably should have seen that one coming.

Dean dodged as the knife flew at him, the witch still chanting at him. He turned towards the fire, the small collection of bones and feathers and other stuff in front of it. He suddenly ran forward, stomping on the pile, breaking the bones and picking up some of the objects, flinging them into the trees before he turned back the witch. Something glinted to his left before a sharp pain in his abdomen made Dean gasp.

The knife sailed through the air at him again as he clumsily twisted out of the way, the pain worsening as his body moved. Dean fell to his knees, looking down at his stomach to see a long slice in it, blood pouring from the wound and staining his clothes. He looked up at the witch, who was now smiling at him as she walked towards him, the knife hovering at her side like a dog.

"Poor, poor hunter." She crooned, Dean forcing himself to his feet as she approached. He pressed a hand to the wound, groaning quietly as he did so, as the witch held up her hand. The knife followed it obediently. It hovered up, closer and closer to Dean's heart, until the tip was touching the fabric of his t-shirt. "This is what it feels like to watch your coven die." She said, voice soft but filled with fury.

Before the knife could accurately show Dean what it felt like, he snapped his hand up and grabbed the handle of it, hands moving quicker than the eye as he turned the blade away from him and towards the witch's neck. His other arm snapped up, grabbing her neck and pulling her closer as he sunk the blade into the exposed flesh. Blood seeped out over his hands, staining them.

The witch gurgled, eyes popping, mouth gaping as she slumped to the ground. Dean stood there, swaying, as he watched the life drain out of her, making sure the bitch was dead. As she stopped moving and the green flame died out, he slowly turned and made his way out of the clearing, pain pulsing through his wound with each step he took.

Dean grunted as he pressed a hand to his stomach. He rested his head on the tree he leaned against for a moment, allowing himself a few seconds of respite as the pain pulsed out of it, blood already staining his jeans, his jackets, his t-shirt. He clenched his jaw, screwing his eyes shut momentarily.

Once the world had stopped tilting, Dean pushed away from the tree and began his slow, painful walk back to the car. He'd always known witches were the worst, but when they tried to cut him open, his opinion of them had been lowered even more.

Dean stumbled through the woods, following the dirt path back to the carpark where he could get the bleeding stopped and head back to his motel. He couldn't help the occasional grunts and sounds of pain that escaped his lips, and for the first time in the year since Sam had left and his Dad had gone off on his own hunts, Dean was glad he was alone. If Sam had been here, he'd never have let Dean live that down. Either that, or he'd be acting like such a mother hen that Dean would probably wish he wasn't there anyway.

He could see the carpark now, the trees beginning to thin out before his feet hit gravel and he shuffled his way across the deserted area. Blood dripped from his fingers, splattering the small rocks beneath his boots, but Dean paid little attention to it as the Impala sat waiting for him, the only person to not abandon him. He reached her shiny black paint job, smiling through the pain as he opened the door and fell into the driver's seat.

After the throb of pain the action had caused subsided, Dean sighed as his exhausted body enjoyed the comfortable, worn seat. He grabbed a relatively clean towel from the passenger seat, pressing it to the large slice on his abdomen as he started the car with his other arm. Pain zinged through his torso as the fabric touched the wound.

Dean pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main highway. It was a fifteen minute drive back to his motel on the outskirts of the town, but he drove a little slower than he had on the way there – blood loss generally didn't aid a guy's eyesight, especially in the dark, and Dean was there to save people from ugly monsters, not run over baby deer in the middle of the night.

He could feel his eyes straining to stay open, and Dean pressed down on the towel covering his stomach, trying to staunch the bleeding and keep himself awake at the same time. Pain pulsed through his abdomen, his hand clenching the steering wheel, knuckles whitening.

"Son of a bitch…" Dean groaned, clenching his jaw. He focused on the road, the rumble of his baby's engine, the motion of the tires against the black asphalt of the small town's road. His motel was close by, just down this road, and Dean found himself both dreading and anticipating his arrival.

He pulled into the motel parking lot and parked the car right outside his door. Dean allowed himself a few moments to prepare as he opened the car door, swinging a leg out before letting his head fall back against the car seat. His arm floundered around in the back seat until he found the first aid kit, the little red bag a lifeline – literally – and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. He kept a steady stream of pressure on the towel covering his wound, swinging his other leg out and grabbing the top of the Impala to help him out.

Dean's knees nearly buckled as he pulled himself to his feet. Face screwed up in pain, blood loss weakening his muscles, he pushed off the car and stumbled towards his room, trying to appear as steady as possible in case somebody was watching, even if they probably wouldn't care. He almost fell into his room, not allowing himself to close his eyes as he shut the door, locked it, and pulled out a chair from the table, sitting down and letting his legs rest.

Dean unzipped the first aid kit, pulling out the necessary items to patch himself up again. He laid the items out in front of him on the rickety table, eyeing the alcohol and needle with distaste before he looked down at his stomach. He carefully, slowly, peeled back the stained towel, half soaked in his blood as the wound still sluggishly pumped blood onto his clothes. Dean shrugged off his jacket and shirt, left in his t-shirt and jeans. He pulled the hem of his shirt up, not having the strength or willpower to remove it entirely, and studied the wound.

It was a long slice, from just under the left side of his ribcage, stretching diagonally to a few inches right of his bellybutton. Both skin and muscle had been severed, and it was a true mark of a violent upbringing and dangerous lifestyle when Dean was just relieved he couldn't see any organs.

He picked up the bottle of Jack, unscrewing it with slightly clumsy hands, taking a long swig of it before holding it over his abdomen. Dean clenched his jaw, asked the Big Man what he'd ever done to piss him off so much, and poured.

Acid coursed through his body. Dean bit down on his lower lip, trying to keep from screaming out as he clenched the armrest on the chair with one hand, still pouring with the other. A low growl built up in the back of his throat, bubbling up until a long groan escaped his lips, and Dean stopped pouring, slamming the bottle against the table.

As the pain slowly abated, Dean picked up the needle and thread. His hands shook, and his head was spinning like a game of Twister, vision blurring a little. He finally got the needle threaded and lowered the metal to the wound, pushing it through the already tortured skin. The sharp prick of the needle dragging through his flesh as Dean threaded and tied off stitch after stitch was draining him, and as he began the fourth stitch he began to feel his eyes droop.

Dean took a deep breath and shook his head a little, trying to keep himself awake. He could sleep once he was more sure he wouldn't bleed out in the meantime. Still, there was little he could do as his eyes slowly slid shut and his hand dropped into his lap. As he fell into unconsciousness, one more thought crossed his mind before he was completely out.

 _Son of a bitch…_

Dean's eyes drifted open.

He was still in the hard, wooden chair of the motel room. He groaned as the pain slowly returned to him, throbbing and stinging and burning away, and he looked down.

The fourth stitch, still untied and attached to the string, was sticky with blood, not entirely dried out yet. That was a positive; it meant Dean hadn't been out for long. He raised his hand from his lap, the needle dangling by his calf. He pulled at the string, lifting it back up and continuing to sew his body back together.

By the time Dean was done, he was completely exhausted. Pain clouded his mind in a blanket haze, and he had just enough sense in him to tape a bandage over it and somehow stumble over to the bed before he blacked out again.

A loud knocking at the door woke Dean as it swung open.

Dean opened his eyes, quickly grabbing the blanket and throwing it over his body before whoever entered could see his wound, hand sliding under the pillow for the bowie knife he'd placed there when he'd first entered the room. A man in his late fifties, with a balding head and a stained white shirt revealed himself, eyeing the first aid kit on the table and bottle of alcohol before he turned to the bed. Dean tried to remove the pain from his face and hoped any blood was hidden, raising himself up on his elbow.

"You're past your checkout." The man said in a gravelly voice, expression apathetic as he looked at the medical supplies on the table again. "Something happen last night?"

"Cut my hand accidentally." Dean lied easily. The manager probably saw through it, but he didn't seem to care as he shrugged and exited the room.

"You'll have to pay extra for staying long." He grumbled as he closed the door.

Dean fell back to the mattress, a deep throbbing assaulting his abdomen from being forced to move so suddenly. He groaned softly, cutting himself off quickly before anybody heard him.

 _Oh. Right._ He thought. _There's no one to hear me._

Dean slowly sat up, shoving the blanket off him and pressing a hand to the bandages on his stomach. It was now more than ever that he missed his father and brother.

Sam had left. It sucked, sure, and it had left Dean feeling more alone than he would have thought possible. But Sam had wanted it, and the kid deserved to live his life how he wanted, even if it did mean abandoning your family. Dean had assumed he and John would keep hunting together, but mere weeks after Sam had stormed out of their motel room, John had given him the speech about how he was old enough to start his own hunts.

 _Old enough for you to leave_. Dean growled to himself. He slowly pushed up from the bed, swaying slightly as he stood but managing to balance as he crossed the room to his duffle bag. He pulled out a clean shirt and jacket, leaning against the kitchenette's counter as he pulled off his destroyed t-shirt, groaning as loud as he damn liked since nobody could hear. He pulled on the button-up shirt, only bothering to do up half the buttons before he gently pulled on his jacket and grabbed the first aid kit, shoving it into his bag. Dean threw the used medical supplies into the bin, as well as the empty bottle of alcohol, the bloody towel finishing it off before he grabbed the keys and exited.

He walked slowly to his car, dumping the bag in the back seat before heading towards the main office. The shirt and jacket he wore rubbed uncomfortably against the bandages protecting his stomach, and by the time he'd reached the office, his forehead shone slightly with a light sheen of sweat. He handed over one of the credit cards belonging to Hamish Beard, a forty-year old accountant from Jersey, and waited as the manager swiped his card as he shot suspicious looks at Dean.

"You okay?" He asked accusatively, narrowing his eyes.

"Fine." Dean smiled.

"Nothin' funny going on?"

"Funny 'heehee' or funny 'haha'?"

"Look, pal, I don't want the cops storming this place cos you killed a guy!" The manager growled.

Dean glared at the man. "Body's hidden in the fridge." He snarked, grabbing his card from the counter and exiting the room. He walked quickly to the Impala, just in case the man decided to do anything else, sitting down carefully in the driver's seat and pulling out of the parking lot before he allowed himself to take a breath, trying to focus on anything but his injury.

He grabbed a random cassette from the box on passenger seat, pushing it into the radio and pressing play, Led Zeppelin drifting out through the speakers.

Dean drove for hours, enjoying the music as he watched the farms and green stretches of land roll past him. As the sun began to set, the road began to turn from gravel to a more polished, black asphalt, trees turning into houses and buildings, buildings into city, and he realized with a jolt that he hadn't been paying attention to where he was driving. He kept a lookout for the next sign, and when he finally saw one his throat closed up.

 **Stanford University  
3 Miles**

Without realizing it, Dean's foot pressed down on the pedal a little. He was following the signposts before he made the decision to do so, and as the sky turned orange, Dean pulled up outside the large campus, mowed green lawns and stone buildings like a castle somewhere in England.

A kid walked across the grassy areas, his long arm draped over the shoulder of a pretty blonde girl, laughing at something she said. His dimples poked holes in his cheeks. He wore jeans and a white shirt, flip flops on his feet; shoes a hunter would never wear. His shoulders were relaxed and his stance was carefree, his whole body projecting an air of simple happiness.

Dean clenched his jaw, brow folding. He wanted to throw open the Impala door, hold up a newspaper and call out, "Hey, Sammy! I found us a case!".

But he didn't.

Sam was happy. He had a girl on his arm that Dean would have tried to hit on if the situation were different. He was relaxed, calm, not living in constant fear of him or his family dying. He was learning, he had a future, a life expectancy longer than forty years old. Dean's little brother was all grown up; he'd made his choice.

Suddenly, Sam looked up, eyes searching the campus. Dean hunched his shoulders on instinct, trying to hide, before he realized Sam would have a hard time spotting the Impala through the trees in front of it. He stared around for a few moments before the blonde pulled his attention, and Sam wound his fingers through hers.

Dean watched them as they walked across the campus, until they were out of sight and he could leave without drawing attention to himself. He started the car again, feeling the beautiful rumble of her engine under his ass, and pulled away from the campus.

As he drove away, a weird sense of happiness filled Dean.

Sure, he was being held together by string. His dad was God knows where, not returning his texts or phone calls as usual. He was alone, saving strangers all by himself.

But Sam was happy. He'd gotten out of the life, done something that made him happy. He was going to make something of himself, some fancy lawyer with a hot trophy wife and kids that loved him, living in a house with a white picket fence.

And so Dean was happy. He had his car, his music, and bars all across the country with girls very happy to spend the night with him. He had monsters to gank, battles to fight, and beers to drink.

He had all he needed.


End file.
